


save me

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Angst, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Childhood Friends, Erik is a Sweetheart, Erik-centric, Fluff, Gen, I don't care if my OCs are "not correct for the time period" they're my darlings and I love them, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 12:38:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15143261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: Erik and his family are brought from Germany to America, and while Erik runs into some hurdles, he also makes friends, who help him make this place his home.





	1. Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amcsummersgoddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amcsummersgoddess/gifts).



> Came to me while listening to "Home" by Phillip Phillips. Probably gonna name chapters after my favorite songs. We'll see.

_Settle down, it’ll all be clear,_  
Don’t pay no mind to the demons, they fill you with fear,  
Trouble, it might drag you down,  
You get lost, you can always be found,  
Just know you’re not alone  
‘Cause I’m gonna make this place your home.

Erik didn’t understand why they were going to America, but he knew he was scared, and clung to Mama’s hand tightly. She clung back, and murmured, “Everything’s going to be alright, kitten. Everything’s going to be alright.”

Erik looked up and saw that she didn’t believe it.

~

Papa showed their visas, but the customs man still wouldn’t let them through. Then Papa took a piece of paper from his inner pocket, and the customs man’s face went shocked, then respectful, and he let the family through.

“Papa, what did you show him?” Erik asked curiously, as they shuffled out on to the pavement with the rest of the people off the boat.

Papa grinned proudly. “A letter from the man who hired us,” he replied.

Erik nodded, not at all understanding, but knowing that Papa would not tell him.

There was a car waiting. The driver was a black man, which made Papa frown, but Mama greeted the driver with surprised delight. The driver smiled at that. Erik decided he must be a good man, especially since he spoke understandable German. He said his name was Peter.

Peter helped them load their trunks into the back of the car, and waited until they were all comfortable in the back seat before driving away. Erik didn’t really get a good look at the city, but that didn’t matter. He was sleepy. He was scared. He was hungry. He did not say any of these things. That would just mean being disciplined, and he didn’t want to be disciplined, especially not in front of a stranger.

When the car finally stopped, Peter and the Lehnsherrs got out.

Erik’s first thought was that he had never seen a lawn so green and large. His second, which he squeaked aloud, was, “That house is too big.”

Peter threw back his head and laughed. “It is! But it’s a family home, even if there are only two kids left.”

Erik wanted to ask why Peter looked suddenly so sad, but Papa was already checking his pocket-watch. “Mr. Marko said he wanted to see me as soon as possible,” he told Peter.

“Yes. Go on in; the butler will lead you. I’ll get your bags tended to.”

As the family went up the steps, Peter pulled the car around the corner of the house, perhaps to a garage. Erik couldn’t see, and then Papa was ringing the bell. Erik felt sudden, visceral fear; they didn’t belong here, poor Jewish Germans on a rich American’s front step, no matter that Papa had almost gotten that degree when he was kicked out of the university, no matter that Mama used to be a governess for the richest brats in Dusseldorf, Erik was afraid and gripping his parents’ hands tighter than tight—

The door was opened by a tall, solemn man who frowned at them, until Papa handed over the letter. Then his eyes widened, and he moved aside, gesturing for them to enter. He said something in English, too, that Mama responded to. Erik didn’t quite catch it, staring around at the beautiful front room, off of which ran two halls and at the far end of which there was a stairway. On the left hand side of the stairway, just before it was cut off by the wall—was that a face?

Erik blinked, and the face disappeared.

Mama pulled him to the hall to the left, and he went, feeling… disquieted.

The butler showed them to the kitchen, where the cook and her helpers sat them down at one end of a long table and set food in front of them. It looked vaguely like stroganoff. Erik remembered to say thank you in English, the sounds strange in his mouth. The cook looked surprised, then smiled, which made the helpers stare in shock.

The stroganoff was delicious. The cook gave him a second helping without his asking, and he thanked her again. She patted his shoulder and bustled off, but he was aware that she kept one eye on him. Mama hugged Erik briefly before finishing her own portion.

The butler hurried Papa, and Papa went with him. Another upper servant, a lady, came to fetch Mama, leaving Erik alone. He was still scared. The cook gave him a large slice of chocolate cake. He gaped up at her, stammered another thank you, and ate every crumb, very aware of how the helpers were eyeing him with jealousy. There were four of them, and they looked only a little older than Erik. Did they not get cake too?

Erik was yawning when he finished the cake. Peter came into the kitchen and smiled.

“Come on, Erik, there’s a room all ready for you,” Peter told him. Erik was so sleepy he forgot to be scared, and nodded, remembering to thank all of the helpers and especially the cook, mustering up a nervous smile for her. She smiled back kindly and patted his cheek. Peter took Erik in hand then, leading him out of the kitchen, and pretended not to see when Erik began to cry.  He was just so tired, and the cook had reminded him of his Oma, and he missed home, suddenly and fiercely. He just wanted to go home.

Then he was sobbing, and Peter got down on his knees and hugged him. Erik hugged back, because he didn’t have Mama or Papa and Peter was good. He knew that instinctively; Peter was good.

Distantly, he decided that, if he ever had a son, he was going to name him Peter.

His sobs were winding down. Peter stood and took his hand, and led him down a side-hall to a stair much smaller than the grand stairs in the front room. They went up it to the second floor, and from there they walked down a hall to a room. It had a bed in it, and Erik’s trunk was at the end of the bed.

“Your mama and papa are just across the hall, in case you need them,” Peter told Erik. “For now, get some rest. You’ve had a long journey.”

Erik nodded, and opened his trunk and fished out his pajamas. Then he turned to thank Peter, but the man was already gone.

Erik swallowed hard and held his breath, trying not to cry again. He walked over and closed the door. Then he realized he needed a bath. He looked around and spotted another door. Wonder lifted his heart. He crept to that door.

Behind it was a toilet, and beyond that was a bathtub _with a shower_. Erik dropped his pajamas, scrambled out of his clothes, and jumped into the bath. He turned the valve, and, wonder of wonders, _hot_ water rained down on him. He smiled happily for the first time since they left Germany, and grabbed the flannel and the soap and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until he was pink all over and the water that flowed off his body was no longer grey with filth. Then he stepped out, grabbed the towel off the bar, and dried off briskly. Pajamas went on his blessedly clean body, and he crawled into bed, yawning, being careful to turn off all the lights. They were electric, and he had been warned about electricity.

The bed was soft, but just firm enough that he didn’t feel like he was going to smother in the night. The blanket was warm, just heavy enough to keep him safe. He slept.

~

His dreams were strange, full of a gentle, insistent humming from all sides, and a slow, deep, old power that rumbled like far-away thunder. The old power seemed to be beneath his dream-feet, but it answered to him. It was slow, but it did. The humming answered more quickly, but it wasn’t nearly as strong.

He thought he would have to choose, but he didn’t. Both sorts of power answered him. And in his dream, he _saw_ them, ropes and knots and a great cord like a gigantic serpent beneath his feet, so big that he balanced easily on its back. The little powers had shapes. They also had a taste; a strange tang, like the smell of old metal…

~

He woke at six because someone was knocking softly on his door.

Erik slid out of bed and trotted over to the door. He opened it, and there was Peter.

“Your mama is dealing with the kids and your papa is with Mr. Marko,” Peter told Erik, and smiled. “Would you like to help me with the cars?”

Erik, who had always been fascinated by autos, perked up and nodded.

“Get dressed, then, and we’ll go down and get breakfast.”

Erik scampered to get ready.

When he was dressed, Peter led him downstairs to the kitchen again, where the cook put a bowl in front of Erik. He sighed, recognizing porridge when he saw it… but then he put a spoonful in his mouth, and his eyebrows shot up. It was _flavored_ porridge! There were berries in it, and sugar, and the cook put a little pot of honey in reach, as well as perfectly-made toast loaded with butter, and a fresh apple. Erik didn’t need honey in the porridge, but he drizzled some on his toast, and the apple was sweet and juicy.

“The Xaviers have an orchard and gardens dating back to King George,” Peter explained as Erik ate. “We’re mostly self-sufficient. We buy things, though. In fact, we’re going on a shopping run this afternoon; would you like to come with us?”

Erik nodded eagerly, swallowed his mouthful of toast, and asked, “Will Mama and Papa know?”

“The housekeeper will tell them,” Peter assured him.

After Erik had finished eating, he thanked the cook and her helpers, earning smiles and another apple, and scampered after Peter as the man led the way to the outside door, and from there to the garage. Peter smiled over his shoulder at Erik, and Erik grinned back.

The family had _three_ autos. Two of them were sleek two-seaters, low-slung and pointed. The third was the slightly older, not as fashionable auto that Peter had brought the Lehnsherrs here in. Erik gazed in awe at the two, and Peter grimaced.

“Marko brought those,” he said shortly. “Ms. Sharon still won’t drive, but he does. They go to all kinds of places at all kinds of hours. I just drive the kids and Mrs. Potts, she’s the housekeeper. Does your mama drive?”

Erik nodded. “When Papa was sick, Mama had to learn,” he explained. “She drove a lot to the chemist and the doctor.”

Peter nodded too. “A resourceful woman, your mama,” he said.

Erik didn’t know what resourceful meant, but he nodded anyway.

“Right. Hop on that stool, and I’ll teach you about cars.”

Erik eagerly did so.

Peter taught Erik many things, mostly the German and English words for each part of an auto. Many were so similar that Erik needed each repeated several times, but he got them in the end. He was careful just to use the English words when he spoke of each part, and Peter smiled and followed his example. With each repetition, it sunk a little deeper into his mind.

They took apart, named, and put together again most of one of the new autos, fixing small problems before they became big ones. Peter was patient and kind, and Erik responded to that with enthusiasm.

The metal tools seemed to hum pleasantly, but it was too faint for Erik to truly register it.

Peter called a halt at one in the afternoon, and they went in to clean up for lunch. Peter showed Erik the sink with the harsh soap, and they washed their hands, arms, faces, and necks. They sat with the other servants and ate a lunch as hearty as breakfast had been. Then Peter sent Erik upstairs to change into something not oil- and grease-stained, and Erik hurried to do so, remembering the way perfectly.

Down the stairs Erik clattered when he had changed, one hand on the wall. He nearly ran into Papa at the bottom, but something warned him—he could have sworn there was a faint humming sound—and he caught himself before he smashed into his father.

“Where are you going so fast?” Papa asked, frowning faintly.

“Peter said I could come shopping with him!” Erik blurted, unable to stop a smile. “We’re going in the auto!”

Papa frowned harder, and Erik’s smile shrank. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Papa said.

“Why not?” Erik asked, frowning back.

“Because…” Papa sighed heavily. “No, never mind. Go, go. We will talk about it later.”

Erik nodded cautiously, and hurried to the garage. Peter with chatting with a maid, also black, although a little lighter, and they looked to be getting on well. Erik approached and waited humbly to be noticed, which didn’t take longer than a few seconds. Peter and the maid smiled at him, and he smiled back.

“Erik, this is my girl, Julia,” Peter told Erik, then to Julia, in English, “Julia, this is Erik. He’s the governess’s son.”

“Hello, Erik,” Julia greeted Erik, looking at him with curiosity. “Do you speak English as well as your momma does?”

“A little,” Erik managed. Julia was very pretty, and Erik had never liked admitting his shortages to pretty girls and women.

“I’ll help you,” Julia said firmly, then, in perfect German, she added, “We outcasts had better stick together, especially now.”

Thinking of life in Germany, Erik nodded vigorously. “You’ll really help me with English?” he asked her, reverting to his native language.

“Of course.” Julia smiled again, and Erik smiled back.

Maybe America wasn’t so bad.


	2. Still Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik learns some hard truths and something inexplicable happens.

He was wrong.

The town was small but bustling. Erik clambered out of the car when they parked outside a little corner shop. They entered, and Erik saw a rack of newspapers. One was unfolded, pages scattered; Erik frowned. That wasn’t right. He began to pick up the pages and put them in order. He paused, blood running cold, as he saw a photo of a swastika.

Wait, no. It was a photo of someone _burning_ a flag with a swastika on it. He relaxed, marginally, but then his traitor eyes caught on the article: on words like “America First” and “rabble” and “Aryan”.

Hands snatched the pages away; Julia, folding the paper and dropping it on the pile carelessly, taking Erik’s unresisting hand and leading him away. He wanted to hide. The last time he had read those words, they had been in a German newspaper, and that German article had been praising the Nazis. The same people who had shot his Rabbi in the street. The same people who had frightened Mama into packing away every item that might even hint at their being Jewish. The same people who—

No. They weren’t people. Nazis couldn’t be people. People didn’t do these things to other people.

Julia pointed to a bag on a shelf. “Erik, what’s the English for that?” she asked, gently, taking his shoulders and gently turning him so he faced the shelf. He was shaking, and now he realized there was a humming, like in his dreams, only this time inside his head.

“Sugar?” he whispered, the word hard on his tongue.

“Yes, very good. What’s the English word for that?” She pointed to a can next to the bag.

“Con… den… sed… milk,” he said.

“Condensed,” she corrected softly.

“Condensed,” Erik repeated. His shaking was going down. It was just words on paper. Just words on paper. They couldn’t find him here.

Julia took him around the store, asking what items were called, until the shakes and the humming faded and he didn’t feel so cold and scared. Then she had him help her pick the items they needed, and Peter carried the items to the counter. The cashier, a white man, glared at all three of them. Peter and Julia looked back coolly; Erik stared at the floor.

Then they left.

They put everything in the back of the car, and drove to a chemist’s, only the sign said “pharmacy”. Peter went in and came back out frowning thunderously.

“Tried to sell me hair-straightener again,” he said tersely when Julia asked what was wrong.

Julia, whose hair was braided back tightly but left in a large puff at the nape of her neck, narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips together. Erik frowned, confused. He had known there were black people who straightened their hair, but he had never seen anyone actually get angry about it. Well, maybe it was different in America. Maybe it was just Peter and Julia.

They were just turning up the drive when Erik plucked up the courage to ask, “What did you need at the chemist’s? Are you sick?”

Peter smiled thinly in the rearview mirror. “No. Charles—Charles Xavier, the boy your Mama is tutoring—he doesn’t sleep very well anymore. He used to get his sleep aides from a Chinese man, and between us three, I think they worked better and were easier on him than this stuff. But the Chinese man died, and now it’s a white man who’s the pharmacist, and he gives him some powerful drugs.”

“I don’t like how much he’s taking,” Julia murmured, looking worried. “One day he’s going to overdose, poor baby.”

“Not our Charles. He knows his limits.” But Peter didn’t look very convinced.

Erik began to wonder, for the first time, about the reason they moved.

~

At dinner, Erik ate with the lower servants. Mama and Papa ate with the upper servants. Erik missed family dinners in their tiny house, with foods he had eaten for years; now it was strange things that he had no name for. They were tasty, though. Mrs. Little Feather, the cook, insisted Erik eat a second helping. He did so, and it was no hardship; but he did miss eating with Mama and Papa.

Julia ate with the upper servants too, but Peter was a lower servant, so he sat next to Erik, introducing him to the others as Peter’s apprentice. The others smiled politely and said hello, but their distaste was palpable.

Was it because he was Jewish? Or was it because he was German?

What if it was both?

After dinner, he felt sick with the realization that things were not all golden in America. He’d been lied to. So he slipped away before Peter could look for him, and headed for his room.

He was turning on the landing of the first floor when the door there opened, making him jump. Something inside his head pinged with surprised, and the metal of the rail definitely shivered beneath his hand—but he didn’t notice.

“Who are you?” asked the little girl who stood there, eyeing Erik suspiciously.

“Erik,” he answered, a little stiffly.

They stared at each other, a silent scan. Erik saw a pale child with golden hair and blue eyes, hard-faced; she had obviously seen things. Maybe she had seen people shot in front of her, too. Maybe she had seen worse. But right now, she was just seeing Erik, and he was annoyed that she saw anything to be hard against. He had not hurt her. He had not done anything bad. His hand tightened on the rail.

Was it because he was Jewish, or was it because he was German?

She stuck out her hand. “Raven,” she said shortly. Then, with atrocious grammar and accent, “You are the governess’s son.”

“Yes,” he said, and shook her hand warily.

“Raven? Where—oh, there you are.”

The girl turned, and Erik looked up, behind her.

There was a boy, perhaps two years younger than Erik, looking woozy. The paleness of his skin was not natural. He seemed to be sweating, too, which wasn’t right; it was autumn, after all. The girl, Raven, immediately scampered over to him and started pushing him down the hall, away from Erik.

“Go back to bed,” she ordered the boy, “Go.”

His hazy blue eyes latched on to Erik’s, though, and—

— _so tired the drugs are working but what if they stop working what if I can’t sleep_ —

But the humming in Erik’s head suddenly soared into a song, drowning out the voice that wasn’t his, and Erik gasped and fell back against the rail, which was definitely vibrating fiercely. Before either of the other children could react, he ran up the stairs, still with that song in his head, sweet and cold and deep and slow all at once, but unlike any instrument or human voice—no, it _was_ instruments, it was the bellow of horns, the strumming of strings, the crash of cymbals, and Erik put his hands over his ears but the song was in his head and he could not drown it out—

And then he fell down in the hall and knew nothing more.

~

He woke up to more singing, but this time it was Mama. A human voice. A human song. He didn’t even care that it was just a lullaby, he turned towards the sound gratefully.

“Hello, kitten,” Mama said softly. Erik was grateful that her voice was soft, because he didn’t think he could take anything loud. “How are you feeling?”

“Head hurts,” Erik mumbled. “Did I hit it?”

“No, darling.” Mama turned down the light beside his bed, and his headache receded slightly. “The doctor’s been by; he doesn’t know what happened either. Charles, though, he said to have this ready for you. He said it would help with the pain.” She picked up a plain brown glass bottle, which had a dark liquid in it. “He made it himself, so I’m not sure, but he is doing advanced chemistry. I suppose someone taught it to him.” She sounded doubtful, but carefully poured out a small amount into a spoon. Erik propped himself up on his elbow and took the spoon, sipping the concoction warily. It tasted horrible, but no more horrible than any of the other medicines he’d had over the years.

“The doctor left these,” Mama placed a pill bottle beside the liquid, “To help with… whatever happened. Don’t take them until this stuff wears off.” She watched Erik worriedly for a moment, then leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Sleep,” she ordered gently. “Peter will wake you when it’s time to go down.”

Erik nodded sleepily and laid back down. That medicine Charles had made was working fast; already the headache was fading.

The hum had returned, but small, and gentle, and reassuring. It was shaped liked the star on its chain that Mama kept hidden. Erik liked the hum.

He was asleep before Mama had left the room.

~

His dreams were even odder than before. He was in his bed, but he could… he could feel the metal of it. He could feel it in the same way one might feel a phantom limb; there, and yet not. The metal itself was like a very lazy dog; it wouldn’t _mind_ pleasing its owner, but really it preferred to rest as it was.

It was like petting a dog with an arm he didn’t have. It should have been disturbing, but it actually felt rather… normal. As did, he realized in the sudden way of dreams, the fact that he could feel everything metal in his room. He had many phantom limbs, petting many dogs that didn’t exist, and each was at his beck and call—if only he knew how to call them.

There was the rub; if only he knew how to call them…

~

He was woken from these dreams by a knocking on the door.

His headache had faded, but it was still there. He drank a tiny sip of the medicine Charles had given him and went to the door.

Peter stood there. “Get dressed, assistant,” he said genially, with only a touch of concern. “We’re going back into town today. Mrs. Marko said we need to stock up.”

“Is Julia coming?” Erik asked sleepily.

“No, she’s cleaning out the guest rooms with the other maids. There’s going to be a party tomorrow. Mrs. Potts will be coming instead. Now get dressed and meet me downstairs.”

Erik dressed, and went down to the kitchen, where Mrs. Little Feather watched over him as he ate (he politely declined the bacon, but Peter was happy to eat his portion). The kitchen seemed so gentle and soft that morning; the hum in the back of his head was a sweet song that made him happy. So he was relatively cheerful when they left. The car was even safer, because the humming was closer, and he knew that no harm could befall him here.

Mrs. Potts was a tall, thin, hard white woman who seemed discontent with the whole thing. The ride into town was silent and tense; but Erik still knew that nothing could hurt him. He was protected. He was surrounded by metal—iron and steel. It would answer to his hand if he needed it.

They went to a bigger shop, one with an actual place for people to park their cars, and Mrs. Potts got out—but Peter didn’t.

“Black people aren’t allowed in there,” Peter told Erik gently. “Go on, go help Mrs. Potts.”

Erik frowned in confusion, but did as he was told. He did not take Mrs. Potts’ hand as he would’ve Mama’s or Julia’s; she wasn’t friendly and she seemed to resent his being there. Well, he resented that resentment.

There was a large sign on the door; it said “NO COLORED PEOPLE ALLOWED, WHITES ONLY”. Erik felt his skin crawl. But black people had been kind to him. A Chinese doctor had helped the little boy his Mama was tutoring. A Native woman had tenderly fed Erik cake on his first night. And even back in Germany—there had been an Indian family he used to play with, and their children had been just as friendly as any white child.

We outcasts had better stick together.

Mrs. Potts chose a cart and began to go through the shop. Erik followed, reciting words in his head in English. He fetched the objects she pointed at. He ran back and forth when she remembered items that they had already passed. He tried to be good.

He was doing an excellent job—Mrs. Potts frown was easing a little—when he heard someone say, “…Jews up at the Xavier house. Don’t know why they couldn’t hire honest Americans. They’re gonna steal all the silver and vanish, just watch.”

The pleasant humming became an angry shriek. Instead of sickening fear, he felt a violent anger coil in his gut like a spring. He didn’t even notice that he had understood every word perfectly; he looked around, saw the man who had complained about Erik’s family… and _called_.

The metal shelf the man was standing next to was filled with heavy cans. The shelf groaned as Erik called it, and then suddenly fell, smashing on to the man, making him scream. Erik stared hard, pressing the shelf further against the ground, the cans growing heavier and heavier, and the man was shouting and people were trying to lift the shelf and Mrs. Potts grabbed Erik and dragged him away, around the corner, away from the man. Erik gasped, as if he’d been running or holding his breath, and felt the shelf relax. He had called beyond his ability. It had drained him. The edges of his vision were darkening, but he held on grimly to consciousness.

He made it halfway across the parking lot before he collapsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments = Love, Life, and Happiness


End file.
